I Lost My Mobile At the Mall (13 page)

I'm standing in Kensington Street, outside the post office. Weirdly enough it's right here in between Footman Shoes and Excellency Hardware and I've never noticed it.

Pushing through the front door, I see that there's a long line of people in front of the counter.
Blah!
Who's got the time to be standing here for hours on end? I wonder how much time has been wasted standing in this queue, among the stacks of lame greeting cards and crappy pen and pencil sets?

But then I see Tenzin Choepel. I haven't seen him since yesterday, when he asked me to the dance and I ran away. I'm sure he thinks I'm a rude, ungrateful weirdo, but he waves and makes a space in front of him and I slip into the queue.

'It looks like you have some special letters to post,' Tenzin smiles, and I can tell he's forgiven me.

I explain that it's my Nan's seventieth birthday coming up and I've got 35 stamps to buy and lick and stick. I'm not sure how long that will take. For-ev-er, by the looks of things.

'You're lucky to have your grandmother living near you,' says Tenzin. 'All four of my grandparents are still back in Tibet. But we write every week,' he says, waving a fat letter in my face. 'All of us, my mother and father and two sisters, sit down every Sunday and write a page each. And we send cards and photographs. Although we have to write the addresses in the Chinese language – not in Tibetan – or they won't be delivered. We are very much hoping that they can come and live here with us in Britannia one day.'

I ask Tenzin if he ever calls his grandparents.

'Oh, they've never had a telephone,' he laughs. 'And we can't ring any of our other relatives because just one phone call could mean serious trouble for them. Our letters are carried to our grandparents' village in the mountains on the back of a yak.'

Hah! Yak mail? That's awesome! Sure beats my Dad driving his van around Oldcastle for Ascot Couriers. I ask Tenzin if they've had to sack any yaks because of the GFC
and everything.

Tenzin giggles and his laugh reminds me of the ringing brass finger cymbals he played for us in last year's school concert. He wore a traditional embroidered costume and played while his sisters performed a Tibetan folk dance. I remember Carmelita nudging me and telling me how cute he was. He has incredibly white teeth and sparkling dark brown eyes set in a face the colour of sugar toffee.

'I'm going to ask you something, and I hope you don't run off this time,' he grins.

I duck my head; the memory of that moment is still excruciating.

'Would you like to come with me to the Tibetan Freedom Festival next Sunday? The Buddhist monks are making a sand mandala in the name of peace at the Gummy Beach Surf Club.'

I look at him blankly.

'A sand mandala is a healing circle. The monks have been there all week making a beautiful picture by pouring coloured sand onto a table. There are representations of deities, monkeys, victory banners and patterns of the five elements – wood, fire, earth, water and metal.

'On Sunday morning they'll have a special ceremony and gather all the sand in jars. They'll make a procession across the beach and say prayers as they tip all the sand into the water.'

I can't believe all that work just gets dumped into the ocean. Why?

'To symbolise the cycle of life and the impermanence of existence.' Tenzin holds up his letter and smiles. 'We write letters and take photographs to remind everyone who we are, and what we are thinking, but one day everything will be swept away.'

It all sounds so amazing. I find myself telling Tenzin that I would very much like to go with him to see the ceremony.

'That's great. So I'll ring you,' he says.

I explain that it might be difficult to get in touch because I don't have a telephone . . . or a computer.

'Then I shall send a yak!' Tenzin declares.

And we are both laughing so hard that the old lady in front of us turns and gives us an evil stare.

Soon enough I'm at the counter and I pay up for a sheet of stamps with Russell Crowe's face on them. I wasn't looking forward to licking the back of his head, but these ones are self-adhesive.

It's all a lot easier than I thought it would be and there's something so satisfying about lifting the lid on the metal post box and hearing the envelopes flutter into the heap below. I can't quite believe there are so many letters still migrating around the globe. I wish my envelopes
bon voyage
and let the lid go. It shuts with a
clang!

Tenzin and I stroll together to the end of Kensington Street and exchange addresses.

'And the dance on Saturday? Do you have a date?' he asks.

I tell him that Carmelita's coming down from Queensland and that we've decided to go together.

'My mother wants me to take my younger sister, so I'll be free to have a dance with both of you,' he grins.

I nod, that will be great. Then Tenzin walks away with a long and easy stride – head up, facing the afternoon sun. There's something about that boy I like very much.

I head back along the other side of the street, thinking about what Tenzin says about the impermanence of life. All the photographs I had on my computer were like a sand mandala. Gathered over ten months and swept away in a moment.

I wonder how long I'll remember all the great times Will and I had together if I can't look back at the photographs of us hanging at the skate park or in his front yard at Hammerhead. When I'm as old as Nan, will I be able to remember the tiny globs of salt in his hair and the minuscule drops of water on his eyelashes? I won't even have a crumbling bunch of roses to remind me of my boy.

I should start making my own box of memories to treasure. Something I could take with me if I ever had to leave my home and cross a river in the dead of night. My christening bracelet and necklace and a couple of baby teeth are in my ballerina music box. I know Mum's got my old school reports and some of my first bits of art and craft packed away somewhere. I had lots of things stored on my hard drive that maybe should have been saved and stored in a box, or at the very least in my head.

I've stopped in my tracks thinking about all this and when I look up I find myself outside the narrow shop window of Royal Seal Stationery. When I step inside I see it's absolutely crammed with divine writing paper, envelopes, stamps, inks, pens, cards and ribbons. I adore every single thing and spend ages poking through all the shelves.

In the end I choose some thick notepaper decorated in the left-hand corner with a tangerine tree and a bluebird sitting in the branches. It's in a lovely box, with matching envelopes, tied with striped orange ribbon. I also choose a white fountain pen and a bottle of Jewel Green Old English writing ink.

Then I head home to finish making the curry puffs for tea.

I've written one letter to Carmelita and one to my cousin Anne in Toolewong. They should both get a surprise when they open their letterboxes and see the pale orange envelope decorated with tangerines and bluebirds and addressed in green ink!

I wonder what my handwriting says about me? Then I decide to write Nan a note too and I'll ask her what she thinks when I'm over there next Sunday.

Mum enters The Dungeon and leans over my shoulder.

'You're writing letters with a fountain pen? Good for you, Elly,' she exclaims. 'Truly, I never thought I'd see the day!

'I used to have pen pals when I was your age.' Mum chuckles at the memory and sits on the bed. 'I remember buying teenage magazines and there would always be this page headed "pen pals wanted". I wrote for years to a boy in Brussels and a girl in Hong Kong!

'Oooh, he was gorgeous, that boy. He used to sign himself "Your Romeo of Belgium" and I used to go all silly over his letters. He once sent me a photograph of himself standing in the snow in a full-length fur coat and I used to think he was the handsomest bloke in the world – a bit like Steve Tyler.'

Who?

'Steve Tyler from Aerosmith. Oh, I
adored
him – those tight pants and high-heeled boots, his wild hair and big pouting lips. I remember their slogan:
We're the
band your mother warned you about
. And Mum did hit the roof whenever I played their albums.'

Why does Mum always seem to wander off down memory lane when she sits on my bed? This Steve Tyler person is still not ringing any bells.

'He's Liv Tyler's father,' Mum explains. 'Wasn't she Arwen Evenstar in
Lord of the Rings
?'

Oh, that's right, I remember now that Liv's got a famous rock star father. An image of Will as an elf enters my mind and I shake my head to make it go away.

'You know, I think I've still got some of my pen pal letters somewhere.' Mum leaps off the bed and runs down the hallway.

I can hear her rummaging in the linen press and when I look out she's almost up to her neck in busted tennis racquets, mouldy ski gear and flippers.

'Here! Here they are,' she says, triumphantly holding up a battered shoebox.

We spend the next hour going through her mementos: her ID card from the Britannia Institute of Technology, her first driving licence, concert tickets, cards from Dad and all her letters. There's even some of her old poetry in here that's been typed on sheets of paper and is covered with patches of flaking white ink sort of gunk.

Yikes!
Most of the poetry is about her walking along the beach
under the moon, in June
and it really, absolutely, sucks. There's a lot of stuff from up until she was about the same age as Tilly, then there's nothing much after that.

'I probably stopped putting things in this box about the time Margie and I got our first personal computer. Your pop brought home this huge clunky thing. But we loved it and it meant we could get rid of the old typewriter and ribbons and bottles of White Out that always used to spill on the desk. I suppose there's a computer somewhere down the tip with all my Britannia Institute work on it.'

Mum packs everything away and she's singing
walk
this way, talk this way . . .
whatever that means. She says it's an Aerosmith song. (Yikes!) I truly never knew she had this box. Amazing to think it's gone undiscovered after all the years Tilly and I have searched every square centimetre of the house looking for hidden birthday and Christmas presents.

'Do you know,' says Mum as she looks again at the letter I am writing to Nan, 'your handwriting is quite lovely, Els. I think you just might have a talent for calligraphy. At the moment I have to pay someone to do all the table place cards and invitations for weddings and parties . . . but if you could do them? That'd be really something, wouldn't it?'

It would! It's a brilliant idea! I've seen lots of the cards Mum gets done in calligraphy and I've always loved the gorgeous script in black ink – all the lovely loops and flourishes. I must admit I've never thought of trying to learn how to do it myself.

Mum fishes in the back pocket of her jeans and produces thirty dollars.

'Here, take this and when you're next down the street buy yourself some pens, paper and more ink,' says Mum. 'While you don't have a computer you might as well take up a hobby.'

A
hobby
? Aren't hobbies for daggy people who've got all the time in the world and nothing to do? And then I realise that without any technology, a boyfriend, or a BF in town, I'm
exactly
the person who should have a hobby.

'What
are
you doing?' says Tilly as she stands behind me and looks at the pile of scrunched-up notepaper, bottles of ink and scattered pen nibs where my computer used to be.

How kind of you to visit!

I'm looking at my black ink-stained fingers and wondering the same. This is a lot harder than it looks. I went back to the Royal Seal and bought a calligraphy set with everything I need. I've now read that the history of calligraphy goes back thousands of years and that people can take a lifetime to become a 'Scribe Master'. Sadly my attempts at a lower-case 'a' in Chancery font look like a squashed funnel-web spider.

'Calligraphy?' Tilly shakes her head in disbelief. 'Honestly, you need a new computer. You can choose from zillions of fonts on there. Next thing you'll be sticking ballet swap cards in an album.'

I snort. Surely no one was ever that daggy.

Tilly grimaces back. 'Pretty sad, huh?'

She looks paler than usual tonight and has dark rings under her eyes. Her first is exam next Monday.

I'm really not looking forward to doing the HSC. All the Year Twelves at school are walking around like zombies.

'Better get back to it,' Tilly says wearily. 'I've got Eddie's laptop here and I just have to figure out how to get onto the net from my room. I've still got the modem and AirPort, so it should be OK.' She stops at the door and looks at me awkwardly. 'And, uh, I just wanted to tell you that Jayden and Lily are back together.'

I know that already. Unlike Tilly, I haven't been living under a rock.

'I'm trying to find out from Georgie Daniels what went down. Who dumped who and all that, but a lot of people are off this week on study leave and keeping weird hours, so it's been kinda hard.'

I stare at the bare corkboard in front of me and tell Tilly that I don't care and I really should put some shots of . . . something . . . in the empty space where Will used to be.

'Good. Move on. That's best,' she says. She's distracted and doesn't notice that I'm lying through my teeth, because I
do
care. 'I'll see you later.' She sighs noisily and plods off to the South Wing.

Do please come again!

I haven't moved on. Not yet. I miss Will so much. I'd love to write him a letter, but I don't know what I'd say. In about a thousand years when I'm a Scribe Master, I might have just about worked it out.

Yours most sincerely, Miss E E Pickering.

It's torture time in Drama with Fergie again.

'How many of you people have visited the library so far?' she squawks.

I look around and see that quite a few people have their hands up. I accidentally look Bianca in the eye and she makes this sad face at me and I almost laugh. This morning she's got two straggly bunches of ratty hair hanging either side of her face and she looks like an Afghan hound! I'm pleased to see that without my supervision her hair's going from bad to
Woof
!

I'll never forgive her for saying that I was dumped by Will because no-one likes me. I haven't spoken to her for two whole days and I suspect she is spreading stories about me – in person and by every available known technology.

It certainly feels like everyone's avoiding me at the moment. Without Bianca and Carmelita I don't really have that many close girlfriends here at Oldcastle. I guess I relied on being with Bianca and Carmelita for years and I didn't bother to make new friends. I stare back at Bianca until she turns away and starts gossiping behind her hand to that total airhead Rosie Di Masi who's sitting next to her. Then Bianca and Rosie both look sideways at me, point their fingers and start smirking.

Fergie
harrumphs
and stomps her feet for attention. I can see her temperature rise until all her freckles stand out like brown pebbles on Wobbegong Beach.

'Bianca Ponsford! I'm looking at YOU! Although I can hardly see your face under all that silly hair. Have you been to the library yet?'

'No, Mrs Ferguson.'

'Then I will be expecting you to GET ON WITH IT!' Fergie yells from the front of the room. 'I want those assignments in by Monday!'

I'm looking beyond the classroom to the beautiful spring day outside when I see Will's blond curls bob by the window. I make an instant decision to spend this lunchtime inside the library. For once, maybe old bat Fergie's had a good idea.

I'm sitting in the library in a sunny spot by the window. I figure that if Fergie's ordered Bianca to come here, then it's the last place she'll be. I'm up to the bit in
Jane Eyre
where Jane has first gone to Lowood School and has no friends.

Those poor wretched girls endured coarse straw bonnets, scratchy woollen dresses, freezing cold beds, frozen pitchers of water, no heating, not enough blankets, burnt porridge, thin slices of brown bread and scrapes of butter – it makes my heart ache to read about it. I'll never complain again when they forget the cheese on my ham and salad roll at the tuckshop!

Now I've just read chapters seven and eight where Jane Eyre's humiliated by the hideous Mr Brocklehurst for breaking her slate (i.e. she loses her mobile at the mall). It's the quiet and gentle Helen Burns who, in the middle of all this hideousness, has the humanity and generosity of spirit to come and comfort Jane.

'Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too
impulsive, too vehement: the sovereign hand that created your frame, and
put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self,
or than creatures feeble as you.'

It's another way of saying what I already know – that I shouldn't care so much what other people think of me – or don't think of me. It's what Carmelita always says. (Although if Carmelita had been at Lowood, she would have had everyone dancing on the tables, using chunks of brown bread as maracas and chucking burnt porridge at that slimy toad Brocklehurst.)

Now that I'm not checking FacePlace or my phone every five minutes, I'm starting to see all this stuff around me that I never noticed before. There are more resources to call on other than my
feeble self.

Sun Tzu, sand mandalas, Scrabble, stationery, love letters, calligraphy and now
Jane Eyre
. It's all crazy stuff I'd never have really thought about if I was still sitting with Bianca at the mall spotting fashion crimes.

I remember what I thought when my handbag first went missing with my mobile and my friendship ring:
I wonder if things go missing for a reason. As if by their absence,
they might be trying to tell you something. To make you see life
in a new way.

In the library stacks there are heaps of books about the Brontë sisters. I read a bit here and there, photocopy some pages, write my bibliography and my assignment is done and dusted. That should get that bag Fergie off my back.

My thanks are due to those who have inclined an indulgent ear to
a plain tale with few pretensions.